


closed fists (as i bleed out your name)

by Redburn



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blood and Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Rating May Change, Therapy, alternating pov, eddie isn't okay, reunited friends, richie is a podcaster, underground fighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 22:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15616590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redburn/pseuds/Redburn
Summary: Eddie learned, a long time ago, that you couldn’t always win every fight you picked.But he also learned, through cracked ribs and bruised jaws and broken fingers, that it was going to take a lot more than that to stop him from trying.Plagued with the ghosts from his past, Eddie spent his time fighting, training. There was nothing more exciting than stepping into that ring, raw and exposed with a buzz under his skin. For Richie, he liked to entertain. His life, while full of people, had an emptiness to it that no matter what he did, couldn't be filled. It's through pure luck that they find each other again, but with the years of pain between them, will they be able to repair what they lost?





	closed fists (as i bleed out your name)

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes: this fic does deal with past trauma/abuse and will have descriptions of fighting/blood 
> 
> Also this is set around 2010 or so, and the losers are all in their early thirties

 

 

 _Let him that is without stone among you cast the first thing he can lay his hands on._  
— Robert Frost

 

**i.**

 

There’s a new plant sitting atop the coffee table between them. A spider plant, Eddie thinks. He remembers looking at the plant before it, wilting at the ends evermore with each passing week he’s sitting here.

“Eddie?”

Only now that plant is gone, replaced with another; full of life to match the preferred atmosphere of the room. He’s never owned a plant before.

“Eddie, are you okay?”

“Hmm,” he says, not quite an answer. He runs his pointer finger along the pattern of the couch idly.

There’s some movement across from him, followed sharply with a scribble of words along the blue ink lined paper of a book. Eddie has since stopped caring about what becomes written down. There are no wrong answers here, only guidance if he wishes to take it. Eddie can hardly recall the first day he stepped into this office, unsurprisingly – a swift kick to the head can do that to you.

There isn’t a clock in this room, so there’s never a way to know exactly how long he has left.

“Did you want to try talking about her again?” comes Mike’s patient tone.  

“No,” he dismisses instantly. There’s a scab on his knuckle, ripe with pus underneath.

“That’s okay,” Mike assures him, gentle like he always is. Eddie thinks he’d happily listen to Mike read him any of the books lining the walls of this room. Sometimes he wonders if Mike is laced with something ethereal. A healer sent down.

“Did you get up to anything interesting on the weekend?”

It’s a question Mike has asked him multiple times before. Eddie used to respond with ‘nothing’ and a noncommittal shrug, until Mike began to encourage him to say any small thing, even if he’d tried a new cereal or simply washed his car.

“I visited an animal shelter,” he answers, recalling the rows of barking dogs he’d passed by when the peppy volunteer talked him through the details of adopting. The smell of the place had been overwhelming that day.

“That’s nice,” Mike smiles. “Are you looking to adopt?”

“No,” Eddie says. He isn’t, but he’d like to. There was one dog, shaggy enough for two, his back left paw stark black against his white fur.

“Did you grow up with any pets of your own?”

Eddie feels his nostrils flare, keeping his rage under wraps as memories of yelling and crying and false allergies appear at the forefront of his mind. He knows Mike asked the question for a reason, so he swallows past the urge to deflect it and forces out another, “No.”

“Did you want to?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of pet?”

“A dog,” Eddie says absently, turning his head to look out the window at the far-off trees. Even now, he can still picture it as easy as breathing. “Something I could walk around town with, you know? Play fetch with. Give ‘em my gross vegetables at dinner.”

Mike chuckles appropriately before allowing the silence to take over once again.

There’s a feeling in his chest, relentless and yearning. Eddie finds himself delving deeper without realising it, imagining those same memories but instead with a companion by his side, never wavering as their bond would only grow stronger. Together, through thick and thin.

“So what is it that’s stopping you now?”

Eddie’s gaze shifts down to the floor before looking over to meet Mike’s curious stare. He throws Mike a wry smile, fingers buzzing.

“I’m not that same boy anymore.”

 

*

 

“—and that’s the thing, my fellow Trash-bags, because it’s not the rate in which our world is becoming so dependent on social commentary, but rather, the fact that we _need_ it.”

Tapping it until the ash falls, chair creaking as he leans back slowly before taking another drag.

“Remember way back when, when there were fucking _world wars_ happening and it took them _weeks_ to even send the news of an invasion to each other? Imagine what the world would be like these days if we were all still that unaware?”

“We’ve got Presidents texting each other these days like, ‘Yo, you seen this new lolcat video?’” Bev chimes in. “’Did you like my new legislation post over on Facebook?’”

“They’ve got my vote,” Richie says with a nod. “So even if right now it just feels like a race to see who gets the most followers, in the long run people are going to see how valuable this advancement is. Hell, make a tweet to support your favourite coffee shop, or share a video about the horrible ongoing whaling industry.”

“ _Political_ commentary is at its peak right now,” Bev says, voice rumbling like it always does when she’s being passionate. “As long as you’re not a dick and have more than seven brain cells, I see no reason why we can’t educate ourselves. Don’t waste your opportunities, y’all hear me?”

“Amen sister,” Richie grins, butting out his cigarette and holding the mic close. “And with that, Uncle Rich is out. A round of applause for our upstanding guest and truly terrifying human, Miss Beverly Marsh.”

“Prink,” she says fondly.

“Remember everyone: safe sex equals a happy morning after. Stay youthful out there.”

With a flick of a switch, the podcast finishes it’s recording as the two let out long sighs. Bev stands up to stretch, her bracelets clinking as her arms rose to the ceiling. Richie begins the motions as he checks the file over to make sure there were no dips in the audio quality. His eyes are having trouble focusing, exhaustion hitting him, but from the looks of it the segment appears to be in order. 

“Hey,” Bev says, eyes shining as she walks over to stand next to him. “Episode fifty done and dusted, right? How does it feel?”

“Pretty damn good, Marsh,” Richie answers, accepting the high-five she offers him. During the past few days of work, he’d almost forgotten all about it. “Do I get any celebratory blowjobs?” He throws her a wink.

“Sure. I think ol’ Jimmy from work is available. Want me to call him?”

“I can do my own courting, please,” Richie waves her off.

“You sure about that?” Bev walks back over to her side of the booth and takes a drink from her bottle of carrot and kale juice. Richie’s nose scrunches up instinctively. “I think this job’s got you all rusty.”

“It’s not like I’m hauled up in some cave off the coast of Alaska, for crying out loud. I seem to recall having a date just last week, in fact.”

“Yeah? And how’d that go again?” Bev inquires with a hint of smugness.

Richie bites the inside of his lip. It hadn’t gone well, honestly, so he’d avoided telling her the whole truth. He had spilled the events of it to Bill in confidence later that night while drunk on scotch, but there was every good chance that fucker blabbed it all back to Bev just as easily. Richie makes a mental note to change their wifi password again to spite him.

“The going of it is not important,” Richie dismisses and begins to walk towards the door. “What _is_ important is that we’re going out to celebrate this momentous milestone. Right now!”

“Rich, I can’t,” Bev says, items dropping into her handbag as she prepares to leave. “I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow. Big client needs their yearly stock rates. But, hey, how about this Friday? At Dan’s?”

“Only if you’re paying,” he says in answer. She whacks him lightly, but Richie knows he’s won.

“And we’re getting you laid,” she says, like it’s a warning. Richie raises his eyebrows at her but makes no comment. She sighs, hiking her bag onto her shoulder before reaching out to rub a hand over his left peck, forceful on his heart.

“Sleep, rest, edit the recording tomorrow. I don’t want you staying up all night doing it and having it turn into a garbled mess.”

“Well I _never_ , because I am nothing if not professional when it comes to my job,” Richie mocks offence. They share a smile before she leans in to kiss his cheek lightly.

“Night, handsome.”

“Goodnight Miss Marsh.”

 

*

 

Eddie learned, a long time ago, that one second is all it takes to lose a fight.

You could be looking away, distracted by the cries of the people, and suddenly find yourself being tripped flat onto your ass. You could get too cocky, too proud, too complacent. You could think for a moment that it was over and turn your back, unaware of the hands that reach out to wrap around your throat and knock you out cold. 

Eddie learned, a long time ago, that you couldn’t always win every fight you picked.

But he also learned, through cracked ribs and bruised jaws and broken fingers, that it was going to take a lot more than that to stop him from trying.

“Faster, Eddie! Watch yer feet!” shouts Mr. Fowler from where he stands outside of the ring. “Don’t move ‘em unless you ‘ave to!”

Eddie tries to follow the advice, but with an opponent coming at him at the same time, face just as set as they circle around each other, it’s difficult to stop and restart his whole stance. There’s sweat beading down his face, the scab from before freshly peeled and currently bleeding through the bandages wrapped around his hands. Today is supposed to be no contact, but sometimes a hit lands without meaning to.

“An’ Harry,” Fowler continues, arms resting along the railing. “You flinch whenever the light hits ya. You oughta desensitize yerself, lad.”

Harry is new to the game, that much Fowler told him earlier. He’s younger, bigger, but for Eddie, none of that is enough to scare him off anymore. In the beginning, Mr. Fowler pointed out his smaller frame could help with his mobility and catch his opponent off guard. A common tactic, but still effective. There’s an ache in his heel, growing bigger as his feet skid along the rubber mat. Harry looks tired; this will be over soon.

“Aight boys, wrap this up,” Fowler draws out, twisting his neck to the side. “I ain’t ‘bout to make this an all-night gym.”

As if he’d been waiting to hear those words, body suddenly triggered, there’s that tunnel vision and Eddie takes advantage of the brief moment Harry’s hand wipes along his forehead to strike fast. He’s got Harry in a chokehold in a matter of seconds, pushing his body off the ground and twisting it around Harry like a snake. Eddie pulls him down with him, grunting under the weight of him until he can get Harry on his stomach, panting hotly from above as Fowler calls it.

“Good, good,” the old man says, running his thumb and pointer finger over his greying moustache. Eddie stands up, chest heaving, as Fowler eyes them both. “Harry, ya with us?”

Harry eventually stands as well, brows pinched and irritated. “Yeah.” He starts to unravel his bandages and doesn’t meet their eyes.

“You’ll get there, kid,” Fowler says. “Just not today.” He throws him a bottle of water.

Harry catches it, nodding once before uttering he’s going to take his shower and slips out of the ring gracefully. Eddie waits until his footsteps disappear down the passageway.

“So?” he asks Fowler.

“Betta than last week, but there were several openings where ya could’ve struck but missed,” Fowler says this through lighting up a cigarette, the smoke lingering in the air. “Somethin’ on yer mind, son?”

Eddie shakes his head, looking at the ground.

He’s been coming to this gym for years now. It’s old, much like Fowler. Chipping paint and water stains across the ceiling to prove it, wood panelling covering every square inch of the place, splattered with holes and nails holding up founding plaques. There was hardly any equipment when he’d first stepped inside, and there isn’t any more now. Eddie much prefers this to any other gym out there. And this gym had Fowler.

“A crowded mind only leads to a messy finish,” Fowler says, tone different, as if he’s recalling something from a long time ago.

“I come here to _clear_ my mind,” Eddie says, not lying.

Fowler meets his gaze, assessing. Eddie holds it, until finally he cracks and a smile begins to tug at the corner of his lips. He hopes down from the raised ring, body itching for a shower. He doesn’t even need to say anything before Fowler is asking, “Same time next week?”

“Yes,” Eddie confirms. As he’s walking away, Fowler talks to his retreating back.

“One day yer gonna tell me why it is you come ‘ere!”

“One day,” Eddie calls back, not turning around.

A single shower is running when he reaches the locker room. Typically, he’d wait for whoever was in there to be finished before taking his turn, but he’s feeling particularly swollen today and decides he can’t sit around for the extra 5 minutes. He undresses, muscles tensing when he lifts his shirt over his head. Exhaling slowly, he grabs his towel and makes his way to the showers, hooking the towel on the rack in the middle before occupying the shower directly opposite to where Harry is standing.

He makes an effort not to look at other men in the locker room. In a fight, he’s already criticized for being too short and soft looking. He doesn’t need to be ridiculed for being gay as well.

Harry ignores him and then he leaves. Eddie stays under the spray of heat for a bit longer than usual, skin blistering pink and hands running bloody.

Fowler locks up for the night and they say their goodbyes.

His apartment is only 4 blocks from here, so Eddie always walks, rain or shine. His duffel bag bumps against him with every step, leaves crunching under his feet. The air was crisp, but not cold. He passes by some teenagers hanging out in a small park hidden between two developing buildings; one of them calls out to him, but he pays them no mind.

He ascends the stairs, up to the 3rd level, and wipes his feet atop his fraying welcome mat. Two pieces of mail await him on the floor on the other side, and he picks them up and dumps them on the kitchen table for later. Pulling out a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, he goes to sit down on the couch and rests the packet over his freshly bruised hand.

His body slowly sensitizes to the silence, falling into a murky, dangerous place as his mind grows weaker and more pliant. Luckily, his phone brings him out of it, buzzing once softly in his pocket.

It’s from an unknown number, but the message is clear.

**Match. Friday night. 5 to 1 against. Yes or no?**

With his free hand, Eddie texts back, muting it as soon as he’s sent it and shrouds himself back into the darkness.

_Yes._

 

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> as always, your comments fuel my creativity, so id love to hear them! :)  
> or find me on tumblr @edsbrak, x


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